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 Feb 2018 Shanna Payne
bron
I would be lying
if I told you 
that I get lost
in your eyes.

Losing myself in you 
would mean
that I had already been found.
It would mean
that your eyes showed me
something 
that made me surrender 
my sense of direction.

Direction in life,
Direction in that very moment.

But with you it's different.
I dwell
already 
as a lost soul,
gazing through the windows of your eyes,
discovering a perfect me within them.

In you
I see my culmination,
in you
I am endowed.

I am not lost in your eyes,
I am found.
... I want to give this to Her. This has been something that has been on my mind that I couldn't seem to put to words. I hope I did the thoughts in my head justice with this little piece ...
(gulp)

Couldn’t resist a minute more.

Relapse.

I again…

After six months sober...

Here.

In this pain I know all too well.

Ten years lost to this drug my veins ache for.

First breath in the morning and last thought at night, all consumed by it.

Every cell in me craves it.

That physical euphoria my body portraits.

Feels like someone has poured pure joy into every single muscle and fiber of my being.

It makes me feel so content

Every single bit of me is singing and buzzing with life and love.

It's like the ecstasy of *******— that first blissful, pleasurable pulsation of endorphins and serotonin.

This is what I feel when I first take LOVE.

And then...

And then, the honeymoon stage is over.

Fights erupt.

Never-ending debates.

Miscommunications.

Misperceptions.

No trust.

Accusations.

Lies.

“I’m done...”



Again, it feels like a part of my soul is leaving my body.

Again, sitting here numb.

A toxic love...

I’m addicted to,

And there’s no way around it.

It’s already deep intertwined with my veins.

Yet, no matter the toxic, tragic event that happened before, I sit here, and I want nothing more than to spend my life next to this soul.

To see his eyes unchanged as the skin around it wrinkles and grows old is what my heart will always desire— to stare at those eyes for the rest of eternity.

Dead air…


















So here I’ll wait, until you decided to come into my life again and repeat this déjà vu.
"She was an
unusual dresser.
Every night,
she wore bruises
on her heart,
love on her lips,
pain in her eyes,
and ink on her fingers.
They called her poetry."

— The End —